The Impossible Puzzle
by Jambammer
Summary: When puzzle pieces start showing up at various crime scenes, Sherlock may need to make a deal with the devil to make them fit.
1. A Game

A/N: I'm playing with a writing style. This is just an experiment, so I apologize if it sucks. xD Also, it's not a direct sequel, but you might want to read the final chapter of The Dead Killer. You won't know who Wren is otherwise. Basically, she's just someone who's interested in Sherlock for many reasons.

* * *

John Watson is quiet, but then, so is every man in the room. Sherlock is thinking, and they _all_ know better than to speak when Sherlock is thinking.

There is no body, but from the amount of crimson blood splashed on the walls, it is clear that there is one.

Somewhere.

The sleuth is the only one to move, and he doesn't hesitate to. He bounds about fluidly, almost as if he were dancing. He swings his arms and studies the wall, imagining the crime within the depths of his brain. With every movement, his mind develops the details.

"The body was not killed here," he finally announces, deciding that the patterns on the wall could only have been made deliberately. "The blood was thrown onto the walls like paint. It was only made to look like a murder scene."

Lestrade nods, accepting this as fact. "What about the puzzle piece?"

In the center of the room, there is a solitary puzzle piece the colour of pure snow. A single drop of blood lies in the middle.

Sherlock sniffs. "It was placed here after the room was _decorated._" Even Anderson could have deduced _that_.

"It was?"

Well, maybe not Anderson. "Obviously." He points to it. "If the blood had splattered onto it, it would be messy. Look at it; the drop is clean around the edges; perfect. It was placed onto the piece with a dropper after the piece was set on the floor."

"Just like the one last week," someone pipes up.

John looks over, but does not see who has spoken. He has no chance to ask anything; Sherlock is taking care of that.

"There was _another_ of these found? Why wasn't I told then?" He demands.

Lestrade shrugs. "It was a drugs bust, Sherlock. That's not really your area of interest. No one thought a puzzle piece was important. Not until now."

_Idiots_. All of them. Sherlock tears at his dark curls. "Have the blood tested. We need to know how many victims we're dealing with." He instructs, and the officers move aside as he strolls by. John follows quickly behind.

"What do you think we're dealing with?" He dares to ask, and a smile curls at Sherlock's lips.

"Something fun," he answers simply. "Dinner?"

* * *

The waiter leads them to their table; the usual, near the window yet tucked away in a corner. Sherlock likes it best here; He can observe people both on the street and those dining within the room.

John has a feeling he will be the only one eating. His flatmate has that look in his eye, the one he gets when his mind is analyzing details. He _never_ eats when he has that look in his eye.

"What are you having?" John tries to ask casually as they weave through the crowd.

"I'm not. I'm thinking," Sherlock answers.

"As a doctor, I should advise you to eat," John points out, and Sherlock turns to look at him over his shoulder. John sees the smirk before Sherlock turns away.

"I'd advise you not to advise me, _doctor_. You'd only be wasting your breath," he replies, and John laughs.

The detective stops suddenly, causing his friend to collide with his back. Sherlock barely feels it. His light eyes are focused on the center of their table.

"Now where did that come from?" The waiter muses. "I just came from here, and the table was clear. I'll..." He reaches forwards to pick up the object, but Sherlock grabs his arm tightly.

The puzzle piece with a single drop of blood stares back at him, tauntingly.

The realization smacks him across the face.

It's_ personal_.

* * *

John supposes he should be used to this; people coming after Sherlock and by association, him. While he does find it exciting, and at times thrives off of the feeling of the unknown, he wouldn't mind if they could be left alone long enough to enjoy a good cup of tea. But with a flatmate like Sherlock, what should he expect? Sherlock doesn't have friends, but he does have a long list of enemies, something he rather prides himself on.

One of those had to be the reason his flatmate was currently lying on the sofa, the beige of the nicotine patches visible against the pale skin of his arm.

John should advise against overuse of them, but he knows it would fall to deaf ears.

Sherlock's eyes snap open, and he whispers something. Before John can ask him to repeat his words, Sherlock has slipped on his coat and was on his way out the door.

John follows. One day he'll learn. For now, he'll just follow.

* * *

Sherlock has questions, but more than that, he has a hunch. Leaning against the silver rail of the bridge, he waits. She will come.

And she does.

"Sherlock my dear," she greets him with her sultry voice. "How nice to see you again."

He isn't in the mood for pleasantries. "Is this your doing?" He demands, holding up the cardboard piece.

Her dark eyes study it quickly. "A piece of a puzzle. Why would that be my doing?" He stares at her hard. "Really, Sherlock. I like puzzles, I do, but do you think _I_ would be so _obvious_ about it?"

Every fact he has learned about her says both yes and no. She likes to be creative, and works with riddles. As for obvious... she had dyed the hair of a dead couple to match his hair and her own. Though, when it came to bloody murder, she did like to keep her hands clean. With a sigh, he pockets the piece.

"I might be able to find out who is the owner, however," she offers.

His icy eyes shoot back to her. As if _he_ needed assistance finding out whom it belonged to. The very thought was insulting. "I'm not asking for your _help_. I _merely_ wanted to see if it was yours."

A smile curves her lips. "Well you have your answer. Besides, there's blood on it. I dislike blood," she sniffs.

"I dislike games, Wren," he warns her.

She laughs. "No you don't. You love them. It's something we share. However, I can promise you that I'm not playing this one." She turns and walks away, her heels clicking against the bridge. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

He won't change his mind.

From his hiding spot nearby, John is sure that Sherlock will.


	2. He Will Win

It is quiet. There are no murders, no new pieces... there are barely any robberies or drugs busts. London is quiet.

Sherlock isn't needed, so Sherlock is bored. When he is bored, he is destructive. To save their home and possibly himself in the process, John tries to get him into more literature.

"Treasure Island?" Sherlock says doubtfully, looking at the cover.

John sighs. His flatmate of all people should know better than to judge a book by its cover. "It's a classic," he insists.

Sherlock isn't impressed. The doctor had said the same thing about _A Christmas Carol_, but to him it was a waste of time. Ghosts? A changed man overnight? Rubbish. Besides, Ebenezer had been _so_ much more interesting before. "So? People deem the silliest things as classics."

"It wouldn't hurt you to learn some of them," he wasn't going to have a repeat of Sherlock being ignorant about something as simple as _the Earth going around the sun._ He has made it his mission to teach Sherlock. The very thought is insane, and he is sure that he is insane for trying. "Besides, there are murders," he promises.

Sherlock's eyebrows rise. Murders? Well now, _that_ has his interest. He sits down in a chair, and opens the book. His eyes scan the words, his features remain disinterested, but he turns the pages at a steady pace.

John smiles to himself and opens his computer to write a victorious blog post that he knows will receive nasty comments later on. He smiles as he updates the list to show which books Sherlock's finished and which he still has to read. It's worth it.

* * *

"His body turned up last week when the river washed him up," Lestrade explained, leading Sherlock and John through the police tape. "We thought it was suicide."

"What made you change your mind?" John asks, but Sherlock's already spotted it.

He walks to the dead man's bed, and gingerly picks up the puzzle piece with a gloved hand. His keen eyes study it thoroughly. There are no fingerprints, and the drop of blood in the center is clean.

The flat clean too. Far too clean.

He checks the windows, the door, anything that might show signs of someone having broken in. There is nothing. It is as though the man left the piece on his bed on his way to his death. That, however, is not possible.

Or is it?

He has to allow his mind to consider this as well, but with the pieces being found in other places, most notably his regular table, it seems highly unlikely. What is more likely is that the person responsible is toying with him, dangling the pieces as a carrot on a string in front of him just to watch him run.

He smiles. Oh, he would give them something to watch, and something to remember when he won.

* * *

"Gang shooting," Lestrade hands the crime photographs to the men sitting across from him. "I wasn't on that case then or you would have been called down to the scene two days ago when she was found."

Sherlock looks down at the picture. She was teenager from the looks of the young woman's face. It wasn't quite adult, but not quite a child. "Sixteen?"

"Seventeen, actually," Lestrade corrects him, and Sherlock curses himself inwardly. He had been _so_ close. "She was found in an alley."

"She was shot in the forehead," John murmurs, a frown turning the corners of his mouth. So young and yet so sucked into the criminal life; it was sad to see.

"Execution style," Sherlock agrees. "She wanted to leave, and that _naturally_ was not acceptable to the rest of them." He reaches forwards and picks up other pictures from the desk. "She didn't go easy; from the markings on her hands, she put up a fight."

He studies her fingernails. They are fake; far too long and sharpened into ridiculous shapes. All are pointed in some way or another. "The ones responsible will no doubt have unusual cuts, I'd suspect on their faces. One certainly around the eye." Black stains one of the nails, and Sherlock is certain it is eyeliner.

Lestrade jots this down.

Sherlock looks up at him. "None of this is particularly hard to figure out. Why was _I_ called in?"

Lestrade takes an evidence bag from beside him. "This was found clenched in her hand."

A single white piece of a puzzle with a blood drop in the center.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is desperate.

Well, not _desperate,_ or so he tells himself. He just wants to win. His mind can find no link in all the cases with the exception of the puzzle piece. A drugs bust, a blood soaked room, a table, a clean flat of an apparent suicide victim, and an execution of a gang member. What could possibly connect them all?

He didn't know, but he had to know and _any_ information was welcome.

John is following him, he is sure of it. This makes him feel more secure as he makes his way to the bridge. Not that he is scared, but he doesn't trust the one he is going to see.

She shows up promptly.

"Have you changed your mind, Sherlock darling?" She asks, getting right to the point the moment she is at his side.

"Neither of us would be here otherwise," he replies coldly, looking ahead rather than at her. "Can you find information about this?" He is sure that she has certain _connections,_ ones he does not wish to know about. Not that she'll tell him even if he were to ask; Wren covers her steps with care.

She smiles. "I can, but I'm sure you know that it won't be for free. I don't work for free, not even for you."

He knew this before he came. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want," her answer is quick.

Sherlock stiffens. "_If_ I were to agree," he makes it clear that he is not agreeing, "where would we meet?"

Wren chuckles femininely. "Think it over, and give me an answer later. I have messengers; they'll give you the details once I have your agreement." Sherlock is motionless, so Wren moves closer. She brushes a curl from his ear. He is leaning against the rail, and is easier for her to reach. She leans in so that her lips are close to his ear. "Don't be too long, Sherlock dear," she whispers. "I may be patient, but you are not. This puzzle will drive you mad."

She is right, and they both know it.

She blows him a kiss from her dark lips before she walks away.


	3. A Deal

Two nicotine patches are simply not enough for this problem; Sherlock is considering getting a third. However, to do so would mean to get up. Getting up would mean getting noticed by John, who is watching telly. John wouldn't stop him getting another patch, but he would want to know _why _he is getting another patch.

This isn't something Sherlock wants to discuss, not yet anyways, so he stays where he is.

So far, the only conclusion he has come to is that he is stuck, and he has two options.

The first option is to let the killings continue, and wait until some form of link joins the victims. There is no proof that anyone _was_, in fact, murdered by the person leaving the pieces. The pieces were just left on the bodies, or at the scenes. There had to be a connection, but what?

His second option is no better; agree to Wren's terms.

He knows very well what she wants. She is much like him; clever and bored. She sees him as a source of amusement; Sherlock knows this. To keep herself amused, she wants control of him, complete control. For how long? He couldn't say. He knows it wouldn't be for a short amount of time. It would be a waste of both of their time if it were only for a short period of time.

No, she wants him for a while. Wren wants the satisfaction of being able to say she has Sherlock Holmes under her power.

Did he want to give her that satisfaction?

Part of him screams no.

Part of him whispers _yes._

The whisper is far louder.

His head aches. He needs another patch.

Wren didn't like to get her hands dirty, and Sherlock was certain that she'd keep him away crimes, at least the particularly vicious ones. At least, he wouldn't wind up incriminated. She considers him valuable, a precious toy. She'd protect her toy with vigilence, if only until she had finished with him.

He is sure he'd never be bored either.

Wren might even be able to find a lead about the puzzle pieces.

Logically, it makes sense to make a deal with her. But she is dangerous. It is illogical at the same time.

Perhaps that's why it _still_ seems appealing.

Forget another patch; he's ready to give up on the patches. A cigarette would be _so _much better.

She is right though; he is not patient, not when he's so close to possible answers. He has patience for many things, but this is not one. He wants to know. He _needs_ to know. He will do nearly anything to find out more.

But did that include signing himself over to a very dangerous woman?

His phone rings. Bloody interruptions.

He debates ignoring it, but he stops when he sees that he does not recognize the number. Curiosity wins over easily. "Hello?"

John looks over, intrigued by the way Sherlock has answered.

"Hello, darling." The silky voice answers.

"How did you get this number?" He asks, and she laughs.

"It's on your website, Sherlock dear. It wasn't hard to get."

Of course. "I thought you were patient?" He asks back, keeping any emotion from his voice. She feeds off getting emotion from him.

"Oh, I am," she replies smoothly. "However, I think I may have found something of interest to you. I was wondering if perhaps you had made up your mind so that I could show it to you?"

Found something? "Depends on the importance of what you have _found._"

"Oh don't use that tone, Sherlock. I've already assured you that I am not playing this game. I would like to meet who is." He is quiet, and so is she, but not for long. "Well?"

_Dammit._

"I'll meet you in an hour."

"I'll be waiting."

He hangs up the phone and sighs.

"Who was that?" John asks offhandedly.

Sherlock sits up and runs his fingers through his curls. At this moment, he loathes his own need for thrills. "You know who it was."

John looks back to him and nods solemnly. "Right. So... uh..."

"John," he says gravely, and the doctor uses the remote to turn off the program he had been watching. "I believe I am going to make a deal with the devil."

John stares blankly back at him. Is his flatmate serious? Or has he gone completely crazy? No, wait, he's always been crazy. "Is that wise?" He manages to ask.

A bit of a smirk tugs at the detective's mouth. He folds his hands. "Likely not."

"Will people get hurt?"

Sherlock smiles inwardly. Loyal John, always keeping the well being of others in mind. Most of the time, Sherlock simply couldn't understand this, though sometimes he tried to. He really did. "I don't believe so. If anyone is hurt, it will likely be myself."

John nods. "I don't like this." He doesn't like it one bit. However, he knows he can't stop Sherlock.

"I know."

"You're an idiot."

Sherlock smiles this time. He gets up to get his coat. He'd made up his mind to work out _all_ of the terms before he officially agrees, but he's willing to talk it over with her.

She's already won, and he has a feeling that she is already celebrating.

John waits a few minutes after Sherlock has left before he too leaves 221B.


	4. 1826 Days

"So you accept?" Wren's voice pierces the stillness of the night. John shivers and holds his gun tighter. If she does _anything_ to harm Sherlock, he's ready. He doesn't trust her, and he knows whatever deal they're going to make isn't good.

"How long?" Sherlock asks in return. His voice is business like, but John knows that the cold detective isn't as sure as he sounds.

"Five years," she answers plainly.

"What would..."

"Now, now," Wren coos, running her finger under Sherlock's chin. John shivers again. She terrifies him, and he's caught between disgust, fear and rage. Sherlock, on the other hand, doesn't move at all. "I don't discuss terms out in the open. We'd have to go somewhere more _private_ to finish our talks and to sign the papers."

"I haven't agreed," Sherlock reminds her.

She smiles. "But we both know you will. So shall we go?"

He pauses, and John wonders if perhaps it's because of hesitation. "All right."

"Good. Get rid of your little shadow first," she instructs, and John freezes to his spot.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side. "Come again?"

"Now, now," Wren scolds playfully, "we both know that you've never been alone for our meetings – just as I haven't. I understand; it's not safe for one to meet with a stranger these days."

John doesn't move, but still surveys his surroundings. There can't be anyone else around. His military training has taught him to be alert, to make full use of all his senses. How could there be anyone else around?

Perhaps it is just a bluff, but he can't be sure.

Wren leans out against the rail of the bridge, smiling brightly in his direction. "Come out, Dr. Watson! I promise you I won't harm Sherlock in any way. He'd be of no use to me then."

Sherlock shifts on his feet. "Do as she says, John." His voice sounds cool, but there is a hidden uncertainty – Sherlock's not sure just what she's capable of either. He's being careful and isn't going to take any risks, at least not any he deems unnecessary.

He sighs and tucks his gun back into waistband, but makes sure that he can grab it quickly if he needs to. Slowly, keeping his eyes on Sherlock while watching his surroundings, John makes his way out in the open.

"Ah, John!" She exclaims happily. "It's good to finally see you in person." With a dainty wave, she dismisses him. "I assure you, Sherlock will be completely fine. Now, if you could just make your way back to the street and get a taxi, I promise he'll be back at your flat within an hour and a half. Most of that's only travel time."

Sherlock shoots her a curious look. She is _so_ sure that he is going to sign.

"Everything will be just fine, provided you do not follow us."

"Don't." Sherlock cuts in darkly. "Don't _ever_ threaten _him_."

Wren pats his arm. "That wasn't a threat, Sherlock dear. That was a warning." She takes Sherlock's arm and looks back over her shoulder. "Good evening, Dr. Watson," she calls warmly as she escorts the detective away.

John watches for a moment before he reluctantly turns away.

* * *

John learns one thing that night; Wren is a woman of her word, whatever else she may be.

A little before an hour and a half has passed, Sherlock strolls in the door as though he has just returned from a leisurely walk. He hangs up his scarf and even manages a cheery "hello John!" as he does so.

From where he sits, John crosses his arms. "So?"

"So what?" Sherlock replies blankly.

John can only blink. _So what?_ Had none of that happened? "So wha—Sherlock!" He stammers in frustration. "What happened?"

"Oh, right!" Sherlock says brightly, pulling an item from his pocket. John leans to see what it is.

A single white puzzle piece, decorated with a tiny drop of blood. Sherlock smiles, and flips it over. There are numbers that line the back. "It was a limited edition puzzle," he says as he sits down at the desk. John gets up and leans over his flatmate's shoulder as Sherlock starts up his laptop.

"That's a serial number," John guesses, and the dark haired man nods. "I wasn't aware you could trace puzzles."

"You can trace anything these days," Sherlock answers simply, his fingers flying over his computer keys as he enters in the information.

"So how did she find it?" John asks, examining the piece.

Sherlock stops typing and looks back to John. "I don't know, I didn't ask. With her, it's not safe to ask too many questions. Am I clear?"

John pauses, and finally nods. "You really are an idiot," he says offhandedly. "You'd sign your soul to the devil if it meant you wouldn't be _bored_ for a while."

"I think I might have already," Sherlock murmurs, but before John can say anything, he is beaming brightly. "I've found the company!" Both sets of eyes look to the screen. "The impossible puzzle," Sherlock reads aloud. "Two thousand pieces, all of them pure white."

"That would keep you busy for a while. Maybe you should invest in that," John remarks.

"Someone clearly has," Sherlock replies distantly. "But why? Are they tagging victims, or claiming victory to the crimes?" The detective drums his fingers together before starting another search.

"What did she mean by five years?" John finally asks, the question burning in his mind.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm to work for her for five years. Let's see, there were three stores..."

"Fi...Five years?" John repeats. "What in _god's name _would have made you agree to that?"

Sherlock turns his head. "Think about it John. We don't know _anything_ about her. She's dangerous, and she's clever. Five years is one thousand eight hundred twenty six point two five days, or two hundred sixty weeks, or sixty months guaranteed to be boredom free." He turns back to the screen. "When the average person lives eighty years, five years is nothing."

Sherlock's reasoning doesn't make sense to John, but this is nothing new. He can only shake his head as he leaves to retreat to his room. For a moment, Sherlock watches him leave, wondering what he has said wrong.


	5. Fiction

A/N: It's been far too long since I've updated! Sorry! I'll blame graduation and whatnot.

* * *

He has stopped asking whenever Sherlock goes out, such as now. He can see the taller man wordlessly tying a scarf around his neck from the corner of his eye. It's obvious that Sherlock is going to Wren. Whenever he goes out without naming his destination, it is always to her.

John sometimes wonders what she wants with him, but he usually banishes the thought from his mind. As long as Sherlock isn't injured – and he _does_ keep a close eye on the detective to be sure that he has no unexplained bruises or other wounds – there is nothing he can do.

If he interferes, Wren will come after him. He knows this. He hates admitting he's afraid – he is a soldier after all – so he does not admit it.

Sherlock, for his part, never mentions the events that do occur. Instead, both men treat it as though it is not happening.

* * *

"I called you as soon as I got here," Lestrade explains, leading the two men through the scene. The ground beneath their feet is wet from recent rain. "There's another piece; how many does this make now anyways?"

"Seven," Sherlock answers plainly. "Who was the victim?" The consulting Detective asks, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves.

John looks at the face of the man and grimaces. He's seen death many times beforehand, but it never gets any easier to look at someone who died in fear and agony. The murder weapon, a plain red tie, is still wrapped tightly around the victim's neck. The puzzle piece sits beside the man's twisted face.

"Remember that drugs bust I told you about when this whole thing began?" The Detective Inspector reminds him. "This is one of the guys we pulled in. He posted bail."

"Looks like jail would have been safer," John comments, crossing his arms.

Sherlock gets to work, examining every detail of the crime with hawk like precision. Checking through the man's pockets, his fingers brush against something odd. He knows what it is when he encloses his fingers around it to bring it out, but he can't seem to process it.

Lestrade and John lean over to see as well.

"That's a puzzle piece, that's another piece," John stammers. "Do you think it's from the same puzzle?"

Sherlock's expression does not change. "Likely."

"But it's blank. Why would the killer plant a blank piece?" Lestrade asks, motioning for one of his team to come for the new evidence.

Sherlock turns it slowly in his fingers. His lips curl up into a smirk. "I'm betting you'll find the dead man's finger prints on it."

The elder man sighs. Sherlock has a look on his face like he's just realized something wonderful. "Why?"

"Because it wasn't planted."

"Alright, I'll bite," Lestrade relents. "How do you know that?"

"The sides, especially the corners, are frayed. All the pieces we've found so far have been clean and pristine. This one's been handled, turned over repeatedly in a nervous man's hand." Sherlock demonstrates, and John looks at him.

"You think it was sent to the victim, as a warning?" John asks, trying to catch on to the train of thought Sherlock is currently following.

"It's a possibility." He looks over to Lestrade. "Conduct a search of all the other victims' places of residence. If I'm correct, you will find more."

"So you think there hasn't been seven pieces, you think there's been…"

"Fourteen, yes," Sherlock interrupts the Detective Inspector, pulling off his gloves with a loud snap.

"Only another 1986 pieces to go," John comments with a shake of his head.

"We cannot let this develop into 1986 more murders!" Lestrade points out in a frustrated voice. "Sherlock, if you've got any leads, you need to tell me."

"I haven't got anything, _yet_," Sherlock tells him. "Though I wouldn't worry too much. Two pieces a victim, you'll only have one thousand victims, not two."

* * *

Sherlock sits silently in the chair across from John. His eyes are closed, and he has his hands pressed together like a prayer. He's been like this for some time, and John worries the clacking of his laptop keys are distracting. _He_ certainly feels like they are invading the silence, but Sherlock does not move.

John eventually clears his throat. "Finished that book, yet?"

"What book?" Sherlock answers, unchanging.

"Treasure Island," John reminds him. "I have a comment on my blog wondering if you'd finished."

"I have more important matters to deal with than fiction, John," Sherlock replies, and now John knows that he's irritated. But whether it was by him, or by the lack of leads in the case, John's not sure. "Tell Harry that. Better yet, block her IP. Her comments are insulting to the human race."

So that's what irritated him. John had to admit that even he found his sister's grammar a bit annoying at times. "This wasn't from Harry, it was an anonymous one. And you'll be pleased to know it's actually well written."

Just what he needs; idiots on the internet obsessed with what _stories_ he's reading. The sarcasm drips off his tongue effortlessly. "Fascinating."


End file.
